


Lover

by A_Candle_For_Sherlock



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, for once, good communication, holmes is unexpectedly timid, watson is wonderful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-30 23:58:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14508006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Candle_For_Sherlock/pseuds/A_Candle_For_Sherlock
Summary: Holmes, generally master of all circumstance, is very much still learning how to love and be loved.





	Lover

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Любимый](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14656470) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Written for an anonymous Tumblr request. Russian translation also available at https://ficbook.net/readfic/6866534

“I’d thought in all that you’d have turned up something useful.” Lestrade was not gloating, as he would have been years ago. He sounded a little regretful, and wholly respectful. Holmes didn’t look up from the mess of paperwork spread over his workbench. We’d retrieved the whole from the Ambassador’s study, while Lestrade held the man fast in an argument two rooms away. But once home, no proof of the man’s identity could be found amongst them.

“We’ll pursue other avenues, I suppose,” I said, vaguely, when Holmes stayed silent. “I’ll wire you when we’ve struck something.” Holmes still didn’t look up, but raised an incredulous brow. “Well, I’ll wire you when we need you,” I amended myself. If Lestrade caught the implication he chose not to be insulted by it.

“Thank you,” was all he said, graciously, “and good evening. It’s home for me, now. It’ll all look better in the morning,” as he put on his hat in the doorway.

“Cliche,” Holmes murmured, without rancor, as Lestrade went down the stairs, and I shut the door behind him, “the final refuge of a man unable to give comfort.” Which was an admission in itself, not lost on me: the situation had put Holmes in need of comforting.

He had already picked over his unappreciated dinner hours ago. I knew better than to make more attempts in that direction. I poked up the fire, and turned the lamps a little lower; spread a shawl over his chair in silent invitation, and settled into mine, to regard his bowed head, his lovely hands grasping the table-edge, nerveless. He was painfully, visibly at an impasse. If the violin would have helped him, or a drink, or a smoke, he’d have gotten it already. At this point ten years ago I’d have gone to bed. Five years ago I’d have picked up a book and pretended to read it while he paced the room. But now—I knew what I’d have wanted, weary, lonely and thwarted in my work. Ten years, five years, six months ago I’d never have dreamt he’d want the same, but now I knew I had something to give him yet.

“Holmes,” I said, my eyes on the beautiful line of his back in the low light. I rose. He did not turn.

“Sherlock,” I said, lower, and stepped up behind him; rested a cautious hand on his shoulder, through the shabby old velvet of his worn smoking-jacket; slid it slowly, meaningfully, down his arm. The corner of his mouth turned up. I ran my hand down his arm again; clasped his wrist and turned it; fit my hand into his. He sighed, and pressed it, and turned to me at last.

“John,” he answered; halted, searching my expression. Speechlessness had proven a good omen between us before.

”Come upstairs,” I said, and started away without waiting for an answer. He followed me silently up the stairs, through the dark. He no longer hesitated even a little at the threshold of my chamber; only stepped inside and stopped, and watched without shame as I removed my cravat, and began slowly to undo my shirt-front. No one who has not known a love inadmissable, maligned and dangerous, can understand the remarkable sensation of being watched openly by someone you have wanted.

But his eyes on me were somber, his lips pressed tight together. I was about to forgo undressing and go to kissing him at once, in hopes of teasing a little relief into that forlornity—but, “Wait, John,” said in a rush, “wait a little. Could we—Would you feel—John, would you—”

He stopped, taken aback by my laughter. But to see him stammer over me! He is master of all things, except what is between us. It is satisfying.

“Don’t mind me, it’s just that I’m happy,” was my poor attempt at an explanation, which flustered him further.

“Why?”

“I like you very much,” was all I could say. “Please continue.”

“I—thank you. Forgive me, but suppose we didn’t do this—now?” His eyes were on my throat, newly uncovered; the contrast between the absorbed look and the brusque words stymied me.

“Don’t you want to?” was my consequently graceless answer.

“No. Yes. No, I—am rather poor company just now. Defeated, and angry. Hardly the right frame of mind for this.” He blushed as he said it, but he looked me in the eye.

“I had thought it might help you through it,” I said, making an attempt at equal bluntness. “To be touched.” I sat down on the bed, and looked back. I had been in awe of him, long ago; had regarded him as something a little above the bewildered lot of us humanity, something cold and clear and certain. He was not. He was quite human. I should have known it sooner.

“No—” When he is trying to explain himself, to bring what is in his mind into the open, he gestures like an actor on the stage, displaying perfectly his hands’ full range of delicate expression. I sat back and stared. “Just now,” he went on, ignoring that, “my mind is all full of the case. I can’t understand what I am seeing, yet, but I can see patterns appearing and disappearing amid the chaos, little lights glimmering in the dark. I can usually go on examining them quietly, whatever I am doing externally; but taking you to bed is entirely different, and I don’t like to be distracted from you.—You are laughing again.”

I shrugged, delighted. “I am happy again.”

“Why? Aren’t you hurt? I’m told it’s bad form, rejecting one’s—paramour.”

“Paramour!”

“Comrade?”

“Say lover. Yes, but I find I am content to be rejected. If you can’t be satisfied with less than utter absorption in me—”

“I can’t,” he interrupted me.

“Then go! For goodness’ sake. I don’t mind. I’m pleased you told me the truth. And not just because it was flattering,” as he opened his mouth to speak. “I should be horribly sorry if you were to become afraid of me now. I like you to be honest with me. It’s the best chance I have at loving you well.”

He drew a breath at that, and followed it with, “My dear John,” in quite a new tone. He had brightened at last; in fact he was fairly shining at me. All at once he crossed to the bed, lifted my face in his hands, and kissed my forehead soundly; released me, and said, “I do love you.” Then he left me there.

Alone, I lay back and smiled at the ceiling; laughed a little more. Paramour, indeed.

Sometime after midnight I was woken from a dreamless sleep by Mendelssohn’s Lieder being played below, slowly and tenderly; as he had always played it for me, from the start.


End file.
